


Sugar & Gold

by kissesfromkrug



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 02:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12447966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissesfromkrug/pseuds/kissesfromkrug
Summary: Connor McDavid is just - he's too *nice* for Jack.





	1. Hate That Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Not for profit, fictional; feel free to point out any typos. :)
> 
> Title taken from "HandClap" by Fitz & The Tantrums.
> 
> Obviously I went wayyyyy too far and created a whole story to go along with the mini-prompt, "take me laser tagging and then push me into a corner and kiss me. then shoot me and walk away" but oh well.
> 
> Writing chill and calm characters is so difficult, being a highly emotional and angry person.

"Jesus fuck, you don't have to be such a bitch about it," Noah says as Jack stares down at his phone with a look of disgust. "You can say no, you're pretty good at it."

"And be a coward?" Jack snorts. "How long have you known me?"

"You won't be a-"

"Shut the fuck up, we're going."

Noah rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

"I'm gonna go, you're gonna come with me, and we're gonna have a helluva night," Jack announces, closing out of his text messages.

"Oh, sure, of course I'll have a jolly good time - you hypocritical ass," Noah says, and Jack would smack him if he wasn't too far away on the other bed.

"Gonna be fuckin' great." Jack puts on a pained expression (he's aiming for confidently challenging, but whatever) to try to convince the both of them, but Noah only laughs at him. "Fuck off, I'm trying."

• • •

"They kinda suck today, eh?" Dylan says, gesturing with his beer towards the tv. McDavid nods from next to Jack, both watching Lopez sling a two-run shot over the Blue Jays' bullpen to stretch their lead over the Red Sox.

"Still gonna make the playoffs," Jack says proudly from McDavid's other side.

"Doubt that," Dylan shoots back. "We go down, you're coming down with us."

Jack scoffs. "Not a chance. Benny and Mookie got us at the top for the runs, Sale and Pomeranz and all 'em lock down the strike zone, Dustin and JBJ got the defense..."

"But they-"

"Nah, dude, there's no fuckin' way we're gonna miss it." Jack may not play baseball, but he knows all his damn facts down to the thousandth digit.

"I just don't get why he's named after fruit," Mitch comments, sipping his exotic mixed - something, with a stupid corny name Jack can't remember. Dylan grins and elbows Mitch. "What? How could you name your kid Pomegranate? Sounds like child abuse."

"It's his last name, idiot - and it's Pomeranz, not pomegranate," Jack says with an eye-roll. "I thought you-"

"Wait, dude, why the fuck is he running?" Mitch asks, already moving on. "He didn't hit it or anything."

"Get your boyfriend to teach you baseball, it's not my job to teach uneducated Canadians about sports they didn't invent." Jack looks pointedly at Dylan, who pretends not to hear him. _God_ , Canadians are annoying.

"We aren't-" Mitch starts, blue eyes wide with - something. Worry, maybe. Jack isn't initially very good at reading people, only making them readable when they get pissed at him. "No, we-"

"Lay _off_ him, will ya, Eichs?" Noah sighs, downing his second shot of Crown Royal in his attempt to get completely and utterly wasted. "None of your business what they get up to when you can't find a single person to sleep with you out of, like, 80,000 people."

"Um, fuck you too," Jack says, successfully fighting his urge to blush with embarrassment. "And I can find people whenever I want, thanks. Not my favorite thing in the world to have my roommate come waltzing on in even if I'd put a sock on the door."

"I'd fuck off if I saw the sock," Noah laughs. "And sure, I'm  _sure_  you can, seeing as I haven't heard you talk about getting laid since last winter." Jack grits his teeth as Dylan laughs and looks over to Mitch. Like hell, they aren't together.

McDavid shifts and squeezes his beer bottle tighter from next to Jack. Who chose these seats, anyway?

"Maybe I've learned to keep my mouth shut," Jack shoots back, but Noah isn't buying it.

"Weak," he snorts.

"When my grandmother skates on the frozen ice of hell you might be able to keep your mouth shut," Mitch pipes up helpfully, and now Jack wants to deck him, too.

"Shut your fucking mouth, I'm not-" Jack is all fucking riled up on a night that's supposed to be fun, and he's just about to throw his phone or something when McDavid grabs his wrist and holds on tight.

"Jack."

"What, defending your boyfriend's honor? Jack asks, jerking his arm away. "Got a nice little threeway going on there?" He gestures between Mitch and Dylan, covertly studying the pink spots blooming high on McDavid's cheeks.

"No one's doing anything," Mitch says, and it _might_  have been convincing enough had he not looked over at Dylan with stars in his eyes. "Right, Stromer?"

"Oh, bullshit," Jack says, and Noah smacks him in the back of the head.

"Lay off, you nosy asshole," he says, and by this point, Jack can hardly tell who's joking and who isn't. He self-consciously rubs at his wrist where McDavid's fingers had wrapped around it. "Honestly, MYOB, Mr. No-One-Will-Sleep-With-Me-So-I'll-Tease-People-Who've-Gotten-Their-Shit-Together."

"Are you fucking serious?" Jack says in mild disbelief that Noah isn't on his side. He's about to say something else when McDavid sips on his beer and it goes down the wrong pipe, causing him to cough violently.

"Geez, McJesus, you gonna survive?" Mitch says from his spot a few stools down from Jack. McDavid nods, looking shocked with wide eyes and too-red lips. Jack's whole body suddenly goes hot, and he stares down at the table, momentarily subdued as he thinks of the last time he'd seen the guy outside of class.

*

Jack is _pissed_. Again.

He always seems to be upset about something or other in the morning, especially on Monday's, when no one's shit ever goes right. This time, however, it's the damn chefs. Usually they're better about it, but - ham? Really? That's crossing the line.

Jack huffs as he takes long strides down the hallway to his room, hair mussed, some sticking to his forehead from the humidity. He's all ready to rant to Noah about his damn soup, bag half off one shoulder and shoes wet from the dew that lingered when fog rolled over the city. He twists the handle and pushes on the door, already talking as he enters his room.

"Hanny, oh my god, you won't believe what they put in my broccoli cheddar-" He stops short once he sees none other than Connor McFuckingDavid cross-legged on the covers. His hair is dry and gelled perfectly, and Jack doesn't know whether to be awed or furious. "Whoops, my bad, study date," he says, dropping his bag and moving to leave.

"Go fuck yourself," Noah says faux-cheerfully the same time McDavid starts nervously,

"It's not what you-"

"Whatever," Jack interrupts, walking back down the hallway after slamming the door enough to rattle the walls. He feels his face redden with anger and something more...worrisome. He doesn't even want to think about what it means, but his mind has already drifted to the way McDavid taps his pencil against his forehead when he's confused, how he thoughtfully bites his pink lower lip, trapped between perfect white teeth as he studies his whatever-the-fuck book with _Jack's fucking roommate_.

Jack emerges out into the fog again, wind gusting in all directions as he makes his way towards the rec center. "He couldn't have gotten _anyone_ else to study with, huh?" He says to himself, yet not even knowing who he's talking about. "Not one other singular person?"

He pushes open the metal door, feeling beyond furious as he collapses in a couch in the corner, rubbing at his face with one hand. "Fuck you, McDavid," Jack mumbles, shoulders slumped and legs stretched out. He pats his pockets, searching for his phone and swearing softly when he doesn't find it. "Fuck _you_."

*

"Zoning out again, eh?" Dylan prompts, and Jack blinks as he waves a hand right in Jack's face, half in McDavid lap.

"'m fine, leave me the fuck alone," Jack says, clutching his beer and waving over the bartender to order something stronger. He glances over at McDavid, who's staring wide-eyed at nothing as his mouth moves silently. "What's 'a matter with _you_?" Jack snaps his fingers in front of his face, and McDavid jerks out of his daze and blushes instantly. _God_ , he's easy.

"Fine?" He says softly, but it comes out like a question. "I'm okay."

"Don't look okay," Jack blurts. Fuckin' - he wanted to keep that to himself.

"Why so invested in his health?" Dylan asks, but Jack just rolls his eyes and reminds him,

"Don't let me get in the way of your threesome."

"It's not-" Jack's resulting stiff laugh cuts off the rest of McDavid's reply, and McDavid sighs and looks away from him. "Never mind."

"Not like I was interested in the first place," Jack snaps, finally getting his shot of whiskey. He clinks glasses with his own beer bottle as the Red Sox finally - thank god, _finally_ retires the side and the game goes to commercial break in the middle of the 6th.

He downs his shot, McDavid sighs again, and Dylan launches into a conversation with Mitch about how stolen bases work.

* * *

"Well, didn't _that_ go fantastically?" Noah says when they reach their room hours later, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, fuck you, he's-"

"Not an asshole like you."

"Shut _up_ , Hanny, you're supposed to be on my side about this," Jack protests, "He's such a-" He waves his arms around as he unsteadily falls back onto his ass on his bed.

"A...what?"

"He's so - _nice_ , it's awful," Jack says finally. "It's so annoying, and like, he ignored me the one time I actually tried to talk to him freshman year-"

"Petty bitch." Noah pipes up. "Once? Seriously?"

"-and he doesn't ever ask for help so he's probably wicked smart and shit and him and his stupid fucking Canadian team keep fucking beating us at ball hockey and-"

"Being nice is a bad thing?" Noah says. "Didn't know you had it that bad."

Noah isn't totally drunk, and neither is Jack, but Jack really isn't in the mood for this conversation. At all.

"I don't have anything any way," he mumbles, rolling and laying on his stomach on the squeaky bed. "Fuck McDavid."

"You wanna fuck McDavid?" Noah grins, and Jack flushes deeper despite having his face shoved in the pillow.

"What. The fuck." Noah just laughs, and when Jack tries to roll again to glare at him, he goes straight off the bed and onto the rug. Noah's laugh is so fucking obnoxious, and Jack just flips him off and makes a promise to his fuzzy brain to not move till morning.

 _You wanna fuck McDavid_? Noah's voice echoes in his head, and Jack nearly whines in frustration as a mental image of McDavid pinned underneath him suddenly surfaces. No no no no no-

Big eyes, soft hair, wet parted lips, broad shoulders, slight hints of freckles over miles of pale skin - all for Jack to touch. All for him to kiss and bite and pinch and bruise up until Connor cries, begs him for more.

Jack's never called him anything but McDavid, even in his head. _Shit_.

 _Jack, oh_ please _fuck me - please, I need you_.

Jack shudders and opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling as Noah chatters on about something along the lines of "getting along with enemies, blah blah blah".

"Fuck off," Jack says in the middle of a sentence. Noah's wheezing guffaw returns, and Jack groans.

If this is how his brain is gonna work this year, he's so fucked. Absolutely and utterly _fucked_.

* * *

It's no secret among Jack's friends that he's a fan of parties - the best thing about Canada is its drinking age, really - so he's not about to refuse an invitation to Noah's friend's frat party.

Well.

"Why is _he_ gonna be there?" Jack asks angrily. "Does he _have_ to ruin everything fun that I could possibly do?"

"He's not gonna ruin it if you don't talk to him," Noah says, running a hand through his dumb-perfect hair as he scrolls through something on his phone. "Just avoid him if you're gonna be that miserable - or hey, don't go. You don't have to do everything."

"But I _do_ though." Jack despairs.

"Not really. Take a night off, rest, don't sweat it." Noah pauses and looks up at him. "But you really should come. Someone brought legit Russian vodka, I heard. Strong as hell."

"Really helping your case there, bud."

Jack goes like everyone knew he would, making extra sure to avoid any contact with McDavid by sticking to his closest few friends. Any time he hears the name Connor he bolts to the kitchen for another drink - and if already in the kitchen, he shrinks into the corner until the perceived threat has disappeared.

He's on the couch between Noah and someone he refuses to even look at, having downed way too many drinks as he tries to play NHL 16. Noah's having a blast as Chara (literally and figuratively), while Jack picked Bergeron and did not anticipate the struggles he'd have with faceoffs.

"Come _on_ , you fuckface," Jack hisses, the kid whooping next to him and high-fiving his friend, who Jack also doesn't give a shit about. Part of the crowd that'd gathered to watch them cheers, and Noah complains loudly,

"I think my controller's broken."

"No one's touched it, dumbass," the kid next to Jack shoots back, and - wait a second. Jack leans on Noah so he can take a look at the guy through slightly blurry vision, and it's none other than Dylan Strome, annoying Canadian and resident boyfriend/best friend of Connor McDavid. Oh no.

"When the fuck'd you get here?" He slurs, and Dylan snorts.

"Have fun at your 9 am class tomorrow," Dylan says instead. "How many shots of vodka did you have, eight?"

"Does'n matter," Jack says, squinting at him as Dylan's teammate leans around to look and - fuck, of _course_ it's Connor.

McDavid. Whatever.

"Be right back." Jack drops his controller on Noah's lap and stumbles over the back of the couch, tripping over someone's shoe to a chorus of laughter. "Fuck you all."

He leans on the wall outside the kitchen, hands shaking when he looks down at them. Jack clenches them into fists, biting hard on his lip as he tries to stay calm, lowering his eyelids until he can only see tiny slivers of the opposite wall.

McDavid needs to not be here. He's just - inconveniently complicating Jack's brain and night and making him feel too many things at the same time and-

"You okay?" Jack jumps and nearly falls over at the hand on his shoulder, and he mumbles out some response that he himself can't even decipher. McDavid raises an eyebrow - being able to do that requires more brain functions than Jack has at the moment, more than available to him even just a few drinks in - and Jack huffs.

"Get off me," he says, McDavid's form swaying in front of him. "Off." The hand is withdrawn, but McDavid takes a step closer. "No, imma be stupid, no. Stop."

"Stupid how?" Connor - no, _McDavid_ asks, and Jack really can't handle this right now.

"Stupid," he emphasizes, reaching out his arms halfway to McDavid. "No." He pulls them back and crosses them over his chest, hands twitching.

"Do you need a water or something?"

"Go ' _way_ ," Jack insists, sliding down to the floor. " _Away_." McDavid kneels next to him, and Jack has to squeeze his eyes shut. Too close too close too much-

"You sure?" He asks, all soft edges and warm colors and calm words. "I can get Noah if you-"

"'M _fine,_  McJesus." McDavid shifts next to Jack, and he'd bet $30 that the guy is blushing. It's so easy to fluster him, cheeks turning redder than cherries before his ears follow close behind, then his neck. Jack wonders how far down it goes, if he can flush all over if touched the right way, if Jack says the right things-

"It's Connor to you," McDavid says, a bit shaky, and yeah, he's red all over. Even wasted as he is in the darkness of the hallway, Jack can tell.

"Always blushin', Connor," Jack says without thinking, as if anything he's said so far has required thought. He opens one eye and reaches out to poke McDavid - fuck, now he's gotta call him _Connor_ 'cause that's what _Connor_ wants - in the cheek, accidentally getting him in the eye. "Whoopsie." He lets his hand rest against the side of Connor's face, warm and a little rough from stubble. The look on his face is priceless.

"I'll just - get Noah," Connor says quickly, stumbling back and hurrying to the couch.

"Too hot," Jack says, several seconds too late. "So red."

* * *

Jack would love his French class, if only Connor wasn't in it. They've been stuck in it together - it wouldn't be stuck if they'd taken different language minors, _ahem_ \- since freshman year, and Connor has only gotten more and more infuriating.

The thing is, he's actually kind of good at it. Really good. Jack knows from the way the professor calls on him over a dozen times a class, the way he jabbers to Dylan all about his "disappointing A-" he got on a 20 page in-depth analysis of some French novel, the way Connor sends Jack pitying looks, how he always seems to finish his exams first-

Jack isn't great at French.

He's not about to ask Connor for help, not when the guy would only give him the saddest eyes when Jack tosses his pencil across the room. Noah just throws it back at him and tells him to suck it up. He knows Jack's asked for help from the professor, but he's just - not that good at languages.

Fuck Connor, honestly.

He always takes the front center seat - Jack would know - so Jack decides today is the day to bother him. He takes the desk directly behind Connor's, slouching and messing around on his phone as he waits.

"You're late," Jack says without looking up as Connor takes his seat.

"You're early."

"Not by much. Your point?" Jack prompts.

Connor says nothing, arranging his things across his desk. God, he's got a notebook, the textbook, two pens, _and_ five highlighters in five different fucking colors. Jack barely remembers a pen on his good days.

"Finish your paper yet?" Connor finally asks, when everything is geometrically organized. Jack is half tempted to knock it all off just to see him do it again.

"Paper?" Jack asks once he realizes he's been spoken to. "What paper?"

Connor's eyebrows shoot up comically. "The one due next Wednesday? On Baudelaire?"

"Doesn't ring a bell," Jack says with a shrug, knowing full well his paper is more than half done on his shut laptop in his backpack. Connor looks like he's seen a ghost.

"Are you serious?" He whispers. "Did you not even start it?" Jack keeps eye contact with him until he's forced to look down. Connor never really challenges him like this, but there is something a little off about him today. Jack just - can't quite figure out which something it is.

"Of course I started it, you idiot, I got 20 pages done, just gotta find some relevant works to compare it to," Jack says with a disappointed huff as he pulls out his computer. "Having trouble connecting it to other authors. I was gonna talk to-"

"I can help," Connor offers quickly, flushing pink as Jack raises a surprised eyebrow at him.

"Why?" Connor fumbles for an answer, chewing on his chapped lip while Jack studies it a little too intently. He's still in shock that he's managing a civil conversation with _the_ Ultimate Canadian in Connor McDavid.

"It'd be nice, um," Connor says, which isn't really an explanation at all. "Yeah. So."

"Are you expecting something in return?" Jack asks. "'Cause I got nothin'."

"No no, I was just - if you ever need help, you can ask me, or like-" Connor waves his hands around, and it's objectively stupid-looking, except for the fact that all of sudden Connor's little quirks are incredibly endearing.

"Got it," Jack says absently, leaning back and staring at the far wall. Connor nods awkwardly and turns around, fiddling with his highlighters and switching the blue's position with the pink.

"Do you have anything going on Saturday night?" Connor blurts, twisting back around. "I was gonna finish up my essay then, and if you need some pointers..." He trails off, and Jack blinks at him in surprise.

"Uh," he starts, ever the charmer. "I guess I'm free?" Connor waits in anticipation, lips red and sore from his teeth. "Sure, that-" Jack swallows hard, cursing his sudden nervousness. "That sounds great."

"Noah has my number," Connor says, beaming at Jack with his too-large smile. "Text me tonight?" Jack nods dumbly. Connor looks about to explode from excitement as he accidentally knocks his book off the desk. Jack snorts, sliding further down in his chair and trying to stifle a smile.

* * *

Jack likes his alcohol. It's Saturday at noon, and he just wants to complain to Noah all day while nursing a beer in their dorm room. No studies, no outdoor adventures, no nothing.

_C: hey Jack :)_

_C: we still meeting up for the French essay today?_

Shit. That - that is supposed to happen today. Jack can do this.

He doesn't want to get out of his bed, never mind _walk_  to do _work_ with _Connor_. Connor's gonna have to come to him.

_J: how bout my room in 30_

_C: not the library?_

_J: nah_

_J: don't feel like moving lol_

_C: okay :) see you at 12:30_

It's not a study date, no matter how much Noah laughs at Jack for kicking him out.

* * *

"No no, not him," Connor says, wrinkling his nose as Jack searches another French writer. "He was in a totally separate era, after Baudelaire. He wouldn't have been able to draw from those works."

"They could've built on his though," Jack says, pointing at an image on his computer screen. "Same beard and everything."

Connor snorts, but considers it anyway. "I guess..."

"Boom, there we go, last connection complete," Jack says, pumping his fist.

"You still have to write it," Connor points out. Jack rolls his eyes.

"Shut up."

"Just saying."

"You don't _have_ to say it," Jack emphasizes. "Like, duh, I gotta write it, it won't poof itself into existence." Connor just sighs and turns to look at him, a confusing mix of emotions written on his face. "What?"

"You can stop me if you want," Connor says softly, voice wavering as he sets his hand next to Jack's. Jack doesn't reply, raising his eyebrows and making a surprised noise as Connor leans in ever so slowly. Jack does _not_ want to stop.

Connor's mouth tastes like strawberries, which is ridiculous and stupid to notice, but Jack does and loves it even so. He threads his fingers through Connor's golden hair, keeping him close as Connor's free hand wraps loosely around his wrist.

Connor - isn't bad. He seems like the innocent mama's boy type, but he's obviously had some experience. He nips Jack's lip, then licks over it and into Jack's mouth, and Jack can barely hold back a noise of longing.

"Jack," Connor breathes when he pulls back, voice hoarse and unreasonably hot.

"Fuck," Jack answers. "Yeah."

 _Fuck_.

Isn't he supposed to hate this guy?


	2. Just Kidding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> W O W. This took a tad longer than I anticipated.

Connor’s hand tightens around Jack’s wrist as he smiles sweetly at Jack, and that’s when it hits him.

No. No no no no _no_.

Jack stares at Connor with an unbridled look of shock on his face, just restraining himself enough to not touch his tingling mouth with his fingertips like the cliché he knows it’d be.

"Um," he says, voice rougher than he’d anticipated. "Can you just—" He quickly removes his hand from Connor’s hair and waves it around, hoping Connor will understand. Jack takes back what he said earlier: he _did_ want to stop the kiss—well, he _should’ve_ stopped, at least.

By the pleased look on his face, Connor definitely doesn’t understand.

He lets go of Jack’s wrist in favor of cupping his cheek, and the gentle move startles Jack more than a slap in the face would. He jerks away as Connor leans in again, tugging Connor’s wrist away from his face.

"No," Jack says, sliding off the bed. "Connor, what the fuck,  _no._  I don’t—I don’t _do_ guys." Which is a fucking _lie_ , but. Connor doesn’t have to know, seeing as he’s not even Jack’s friend, anyway.

"Oh." Connor’s face, which had been flushed from happiness, blanches white as snow. "Sorry."

"It’s nothing personal," Jack adds hurriedly, feeling surprisingly guilty. "Not like that, just don’t—you know." Connor doesn’t answer, slowly closing his computer. "Hey."

"I gotta go," Connor says softly, fumbling with his notebooks and folders as he tries to stack them. Jack stands motionless in front of the bed, trying to figure out how to make it not sound like he’s being a douche.

"Connor," he tries, searching for the right words. "You just—just don’t assume, okay? I—what the _fuck_?" Not the right words.

Connor looks up at him as a blue folder slides onto the floor. Jack automatically attempts a smile that probably comes out as more of a grimace before he says, "We can just forget about it if you wanted to finish this."

"You want to forget about it?" Connor asks in hurt disbelief, even quieter than ever. There’s no trace of frustration in his voice, though, which makes Jack irrationally upset. If he kissed someone who acted like they didn’t want to kiss him back, he’d feel like shit if they told him to his face that they never wanted to think about it again. Hypocrite.

"I mean, that’d be the best option,” Jack says, licking his lips hastily. "I don’t even  _know_ you, like, that was really stupid and—"

"I get it," Connor interrupts, voice lower than before, but no softer. He doesn’t sound angry, which is odd, but Jack detects... _something_ in the way Connor delicately slides all his belongings into his backpack and zips it up with shaky hands. His teeth are sunk deep into his lower lip—God, Jack was _kissing_ that less than five minutes ago. It wasn’t _too_ too bad, if he thinks about it too much.

"Maybe—"

"I need to go." Connor suddenly looks a step from crying, damaged and fragile as Jack continues to be rooted to the spot. Shit.

" _Connor_ ," he emphasizes, "That was really fucking dumb, but like-"

"It’s better that I go," Connor answers, but there’s not a trace of malice, only—honesty. Jack feels something dark swoop in his gut as his heart sinks closer to his feet than it should. Connor ducks his head as he drags himself off the bed and slips past Jack to the door, hands shoved deep in his Leafs sweatshirt.

"Sorry?" Jack says as he turns, but the door’s already shutting behind Connor. Jack’s attempt at an apology turned out as more of a question anyway.

He should’ve stopped talking a lot quicker.

* * *

The next day is a Sunday, so Jack takes liberties with his free time and sleeps until 11, when Noah returns from breakfast with two bottles of orange juice and pancakes in a box.

"Wake up," Noah says as Jack blinks awake, tossing the juice in his general direction and setting the to-go box on his desk.

"What the hell?" Jack sighs as he sits up, and Noah snorts.

"A thank you would’ve been sufficient enough."

"Thanks, you’re welcome, don’t throw it at my fucking face next time, whatever,” Jack mumbles, Noah watching him expectantly from his own bed. "What, you creep?"

"How was your date?"

"I don’t-" Oh. "It wasn’t a date, dickface, it was a study period."

"And that’s why he came to your room after you sexiled me, right?" Noah asks innocently, sipping his orange juice.

"I didn’t sexile you, what the fuck," Jack says in mild shock.

"So that thing about not having been laid in forever _is_ true, eh?" Noah smirks.

"Don’t say eh,” Jack starts with a huff, "and no, it’s not. You’re not a mind reader."

"I’m your roomie, Jack, there’s nothing you can hide from me," Noah says firmly, knowing he’s won that part of the argument. "So. How was the not-date with your new best friend?"

"We’re not friends," Jack says automatically. "It was...fine."

"He texted _me,_ of all people, two hours after you told me to clear out till dinner, because it went well?" Noah says with a perfectly raised eyebrow. "Because he seemed to think of it a little differently."

"Fuck what he says, _I’m_ your friend." Jack throws his legs out of bed and takes a long sip of the juice. "What does his opinion matter?"

"Uh, maybe because I have other friends than you that include him, _just maybe_?" Noah scoffs. "He said you kicked him out." Um, false.

"I did _not_ , I tried to get him to stay to help me with the last part of my paper but he just ran off, it’s not my fault."

"You were supposed to be nice to him," Noah says while shaking his head. "You don’t ever listen."

"Hanny-"

"Be a decent fucking person every now and then, will ya?" Jack just sits in silence, holding his juice tight as he stews and thinks of what he should say about it. He comes up with nothing.

"C’mon, Eichs, forget about it," Noah continues, his tone brightening. "You wanna go play shinny with some of the guys? We got a real game this Thursday and all."

Jack slowly rises off the bed in response, moving around the room like a dead man. Noah chatters about how much he loves mac 'n' cheese with bacon on it as Jack gets dressed, and by the time they make their way out, Jack feels mostly normal again.

* * *

When Jack’s first class of the week rolls around, he makes sure to throw himself into his work for the rest of the week, and vows to put it before sports and only slightly under food. He takes longer routes in order to avoid Connor, who’s schedule he’s definitely _not_ memorized, and eats a good percentage of his meals in his room.

No one really notices—he’s still late to half his classes, sometimes he forgets his fancy gel pens, and he doesn’t talk to Connor. Same old same old.

Except.

He can’t get it out of his head, the way Connor had looked at him. It was all of a sudden, in Jack’s room, in the middle of a French paper, while Jack was being sarcastic and weird and mildly douchey, per usual. And Connor had wanted to _kiss_ him. Jack still can’t believe it.

Connor didn’t seem like he wanted anything else from Jack, either, a boyish hopefulness in his eyes as he held onto Jack's wrist with just the right amount of pressure. He just wanted a kiss.

Jack hasn’t been oblivious to the looks Connor’s been sending him in French, either, those mournful, guilty expressions reminiscent of someone who’d cheated on their lover but couldn’t work up enough courage to explain to their ex why they were broken being alone. It was an oddly specific comparison that seemed to perfectly fit the situation, and Jack found himself unintentionally staring right back.

And yet, every time, Jack tears his eyes away with no small measure of difficulty as he thinks of what he would possibly say to Connor, and vice versa. He can never come up with anything good, no matter what point of view he places himself in. He’d flat out rejected Connor’s advances, his lying about his straightness having evidently worked too well. Connor had refused to talk to him about any of it, so Jack can’t really tell whose court the ball is in.

Why should he care, anyway? He’s spent the better part of three years hating Connor’s guts, it shouldn’t be hard to fall right back into it. Unless—

No. That’s ridiculous, Jack doesn’t like Connor like that—he never has, never will. Whatever that emotional fluke was when they’d been working together in Jack’s room—it won’t happen again. Jack is sure of it. No more hesitation about his mild hatred of the Perfect Canadian Boy.

* * *

It’s two weeks into Jack’s self-preservation and he already has at least three people upset with him, dozens of messages left unanswered on his phone.

Nearly every text from Connor contains some sort of apology, the messages stretched out over the course of 13 days, starting the night of their study not-date. It makes Jack sick to his stomach to think of being that sorry for something.

_Connor: I’m sorry I left, I just kinda freaked out for a sec_

_C: I’m really sorry :( I hope u aren’t too mad_

_C: reschedule??_

_C: Jack? are we ok?? :( I’m sorry I did that, I really am_

_C: I’m so sorry, please text me back_

_C: is this about the kiss or the leaving?_

_C: the kiss was an accident, ur right, I didn’t mean to scare u off_

_C: I’m sorry, Jack :(_

_C: please answer me_

_C: I’m so sorry about everything, I didn’t mean to overstep_

_C: I shouldn’t have assumed anything, I’m sorry_

_C: please text me back. please, jack._

_C: jack, please....._

_C: what can I do????? I’m really really sorry :((_

_C: please forgive me for being stupid. please._

_C: Jack?...._

_C: please forgive me. I’m so fucking sorry, I know I’m an idiot_

_C: I’m sorry, I’ll stop._

Connor’s texts seem like he’s talking to an ex who won’t take him back—just like his eyes in French class—and that—Jack doesn’t know how he feels about that. They never texted before, so it’s not like their not-talking now should affect Connor at all.

Jack’s not over the moon with joy about the ridiculous influx of messages, that’s for sure. He was supposed to _hate_ Connor.

Now he’s finding himself tempted to text back and make up, like a normal person. But then again, when has Jack ever acted like a normal person around other people?

And then there’s Connor’s best friends, who specifically made a group chat to yell at Jack. He hasn’t even bothered to look at some of those texts, since the ones he has—well. He wishes he hadn’t.

_Marner: what the fuck Jack_

_M: what did u do??_

_Strome: I stg..._

_M: u better not have hurt him_

_S: if he cries ur gonna pay big time_

_M:_ (ง •̀_•́)ง

_S: u know he doesn’t deserve this_

_S: answer his fuckin txts_

_S: idk and idc who tf u think u r, ur not above apologizing_

_M: answer me 2 while ur @ it_

_M:_ (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ

_M: ur such a douche_

_S: he said sorry like 183469 times u need 2 man tf up and say smth_

_M: idk y he ever liked u >:(_

_S: I swear 2 fuckin god, u idiotic patriotic fool !!_

Jack doesn’t need to apologize, nor will he. Connor made the mistake, not him, and Connor apologized, so. There. It’s done.

And—Connor _liked_  him? Connor never liked him, he just felt shitty for doing so well while Jack suffered, and wanted to be the Perfect Canadian Boy everyone thinks he is. Nothing about Jack. The kiss was a mistake anyway, they both admitted it.

It’s got nothing to do with liking Jack.

* * *

"You're such a dumbass," Noah sighs in the middle of Jack's biweekly rant about his French class.

"Excuse me, but I'm the only one that can call myself a dumbass," Jack sniffs, sticking his nose in the air.

"About McJesus," Noah specifies, "you're a fucking dumbass."

He’s not a dumbass, he’s just—self-preserving. No one kisses their enemy then _lives_ with it. Jack never really talked to Connor anyway—it was completely voluntary, mind you—so the whole "ignoring" thing that Noah’s probably accusing him of isn’t even new. Jack would be 100% okay with never talking to Connor again. Maybe.

"You know that he’s asked _me_ why you haven’t texted him back, right?" Noah asks, setting his book down on the library table. Great. Now Connor’s using his so-called friendship with Noah to get to Jack. Jack only knows one thing about _that,_ and it’s that Connor’s plan is a fucking stupid one. Jack doesn’t _like_ him—at all. Hasn’t ever.

"I don’t know shit about how you feel about him," Noah continues, unaware of Jack’s inner dialogue. "One day you’re all like ‘oh my god, his soft hair is _so_ stupid’, and then your actually pissed off side comes out and is like ‘I’m never gonna _look_ at him again, he’s so fucking  _annoying_ ’." Jack does not appreciate the high voice Noah uses to mock him.

"I do _not_ complain about his stupid soft hair," Jack argues. Noah only raises an eyebrow and sticks a bookmark in the page he was looking at. "I don’t."

"You sit on a throne of lies." Jack just rolls his eyes and turns away, trying a little too hard not to think about how said soft hair felt between his fingers.

* * *

Connor doesn’t really seem like he’d be the type to corner anyone ever, but the night after Jack’s street hockey team loses a close one to Connor’s, he does just that.

Jack would rather not talk to anyone for the next 12 hours, so at the light touch on his arm, all he can think of is how surprised he is that anyone’s even making an attempt to socialize with him. When he turns to see Connor in his dumb blue hat with the poof on top—well, he’s a little less than pleased.

"Can I help you?" Jack asks, pursing his lips as Connor shuffles his feet and looks at the ground.

"I’m sorry," he says, and Jack has to lean in a little to hear him over the wind. "For this, too, I just need—" Connor looks up at Jack and straightens his shoulders, and Jack realizes all of a sudden that they’re about the same height.

Jack doesn’t reply, and Connor takes in a deep breath before he sets a gloved hand on Jack’s cheek and steps forward. Jack should say something, should remind Connor that he’s not interested in him (could be a lie), nor is he into guys (definitely a lie). He should say it.

"Is it okay?" Connor asks, giving Jack one last chance. His eyes are—wow. Close. Pretty. Jack should—

"Yeah," Jack exhales like the self-destructive idiot he is, and Connor smiles like the sun.

He lets Connor kiss him as softly as he likes, the warmth of Connor’s mouth sending shivers down Jack’s spine and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. He kisses Connor the way he’s always wanted to be kissed, slow and wet and deep. He’s almost tempted to set his hands on Connor’s waist before he remembers that he doesn’t want to be doing this—and that this is _Connor_.

"I just needed—one more time," Connor murmurs when he pulls away, lips shiny in the moonlight, stroking his fingers down Jack’s jawline before shoving both hands in his coat pockets. "Thanks, I—I’m sorry."

Jack can’t find a single word to say as Connor quickly walks away, head ducked down from the biting wind. He watches Connor’s hunched form until it disappears around a building, and he swallows hard as he turns to go back to his dorm.

Shit.

* * *

"Whose ghost did you see?" Noah asks when Jack returns to their room a few minutes after everyone else.

"Nobody," Jack sighs, sitting on his bed and staring at his feet.

"Who died in front of you, then?"

" _Nobody_ , Hanny, I’m just tired."

"You don’t have a McJesus problem?” Noah prompts, raising an eyebrow, and Jack groans and flops back on his bed.

"I don’t have a McJesus _anything,_ " he mumbles, arm thrown over his eyes.

"You’re acting really—what’s the word?—dramatic, for not having a McJesus problem," Noah says with an eye roll. "What happened?" There’s no getting past Noah like this now.

"Nothing happened."

"Are you gonna tell me all about what happened at your not-date or am I gonna have to get him to tell me the rest?" Noah warns, and Jack is about to protest until he hears-

"He told you what happened?" Jack demands, sitting up too fast as stars blink behind his eyelids. "It was nothing. It was a mistake, we're never doing it again."

"Doing what?"

Jack flushes as he thinks of moments before, when Connor had looked at him through his eyelashes before he leaned in. His warm hand, his gentle kisses lulling Jack into a false sense of security, a place he doesn’t think he’d ever be comfortable. Jack now realizes that, in that moment, he could never have said no.

That’s frightening.

* * *

Jack decides he’s never going to another party that involves Connor during the one on Saturday night following American Thanksgiving. He wasn’t able to make it down to see his family, so a long FaceTime call and a special turkey dinner provided by the cooks made for a decent substitute.

The party, however, is a personal disaster to Jack.

All’s good and well for the first hour and a half: he hasn’t heard Connor’s name at all, Strome and Marner haven’t been spotted since he walked in—making out in the hallway, no less; he _knew_ they were lying about hooking up together—and he just won an intense game of beer pong with Noah against a couple guys that live down the hall from them.

Noah wanders off to find the person who’s making fruity drinks, so Jack makes his way down one of the hallways to find the bathroom. He’s just about to swing open the door when, from a little ways down the hallway, another door opens.

A familiar figure stumbles out, and Jack’s jaw drops in shock as Connor shoves his hands in his pockets and grins lazily at him, sex-mussed hair, dazed eyes, too-big shirt and all. He’s followed by one of the graduate students named Taylor, who looks simultaneously smug and mind-blown, a huge hickey on his neck that Jack really doesn’t want to think about. Connor meets Jack’s stare and holds it as he walks by, and Jack might even imagine a wink.

He’s too drunk for this—or maybe not drunk enough.

* * *

News travels fast, Jack discovers, and he finds himself hearing about Connor’s hookup the very next day over lunch. Like _that’s_ something he wants to think about ever.

"They’re like, a thing now, apparently," Noah says after swallowing. Jack doesn’t reply, and Noah continues, "You’re not pissed?"

"I’m not pissed at him, Hanny," Jack grumbles. "I literally couldn’t care less about who fucks who."

"Somebody’s jealous that they’re not getting some on the reg," Noah singsongs, dodging the fry Jack throws at him. "And you’re always up on the drama, what’s wrong with this?"

"Shut up, that’s not the point."

"And the point is?" Noah asks, looking self-satisfied over his bag of chips.

"That I don’t care about any of that."

"So you’d rather be frustrated and lonely than sleeping with some—" He lowers his voice and leans closer. “—some hot dude who gives you a clear indication that they like you? You lost your chance, bro."

"He’s not hot, what the fuck?" Jack answers reflexively. He really needs to stop lying to himself.

"I mean, objectively, he kinda is," Noah clarifies. "Not like what’s-his-face that you tried to convince me was the next Coming of Christ, no pun intended." Jack kicks his ankle under the table and smirks at his protesting yelp. "But really, when are you gonna do it?"

"I’m not gonna do anything, dude, I already told—" Jack cuts himself off, but he’s already said enough.

"What did you tell him besides the fact that you’re not interested?" Noah asks immediately, crunching on his chips. "That you’re like, straight? It’s kinda obvious that you’re not, but like. Not my cup of tea."

" _Cup of tea_ , oh my god."

"That’s what you told him, isn’t it? That you’re not into guys." Jack refuses to answer, and Noah hums in smug satisfaction. "You’re such an idiot."

"It’s called self-preservation, look it up," Jack says with a frown. "I’m not gonna go around telling random-ass people who I’m into."

"He’s really not random to you," Noah points out, staring so intensely at Jack that he has to look away. "He likes you somehow, you know that—even with all your douchiness."

"Shut up, he does not," Jack scoffs. "He’s just too fucking nice, I can’t stand it."

"You’re literally the most fucking stupid person I know," Noah sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. "What the fuck. He’d literally do anything to get you."

"Then don’t you think he would’ve done it already?"

Noah sits back, rubbing his hands over his face as he groans. "Talk to him," he says between the gaps of his fingers. "I know you don’t hate him."

"I actually—"

"I’m not even sure if you ever did," Noah barrels on, dropping his hands and pinning Jack to his seat with his fierce gaze. "But if you did, you definitely got over it, and now you’re both pining and it’s stupid and ridiculous."

Jack tries to sputter out a response, but none of his words will join together. Noah smirks at him, and Jack lets out an angry whistling breath through his nose. " _Fine_ , you asshole. I’ll talk to his stupid face."

Noah just smiles innocently at Jack. This is going to be a long rest of the year.

* * *

Jack doesn’t talk to Connor for the next three weeks after that. There’s no reason for him to, not even counting the fact that they don’t like each other. Well. Jack doesn’t _want_ them to like each other.

Noah gives Jack almost daily updates on Connor and Taylor’s relationship—"I literally don’t give a fuck, Hanny, fuck right off about it."—since he’s apparently Connor’s go-to source for help when Strome and Marner are...busy.

Jack even sees them together sometimes, eating lunch or walking to class or sitting on a bench, and makes sure to move as far away as possible for make sure he doesn’t get an eyeful just in case they start making out again.

He’s only seen that happen once—thank god—while he was studying in the library. He chanced a look over at Connor, who leaned into Taylor just as Jack made eye contact with him. They kept it for several impossible seconds into the kiss before Connor let his eyes flutter shut, and shivers ran down Jack’s spine as he turned back to his work, suddenly seeming impossible.

Noah even has the nerve to ask Jack once what he thinks Connor should do for Taylor’s birthday. Jack flips him off and tries not to think of Taylor fucking Connor into the mattress, breath hot on Connor’s neck as he lets out the most delicious sounds into the sheets. 

Jack’s brain functions need to be seriously evaluated and renovated.

* * *

Jack is not about to refuse an opportunity to go to a laser tagging event they planned over a month ago, no matter if Connor shows up or not, which—maturity points for Jack for not really giving a shit this time.

Connor does end up going, Noah gives Jack a stupid look and waggles his eyebrows, and Jack makes absolutely sure that himself and Connor are not on the same team. Definitely not Taylor either, who Connor so helpfully brought along. Fuck the both of them, honestly.

"Hope you know I hate you for this," Jack mutters to Noah when he finds out Noah invited Connor. "I could’ve had a wonderful night, but now—"

"You get to pretend to shoot him, what’s more satisfying than that?" Noah says, obviously not giving a single shit about Jack’s problems.

"You made me have to think about him," Jack hisses back, ducking a shot and aiming at someone with a blinking pink vest. Noah’s eyebrows are raised to his hairline when Jack looks over again, and he snorts as Jack glares at him.

"Never said you had to think about him." Jack huffs some choice words under his breath, and Noah adds, "Get your shit together," before he slinks away and turns a corner, leaving Jack to fend for himself. He didn’t want any help anyway.

Someone in orange stumbles past, and Jack automatically raises his gun. They turn to look and immediately drop theirs, costing Jack a few extra moments of hesitation. "Uh—"

"Please don’t shoot," Connor says, hands raises in submission, "I don’t wanna die _again_."

"That’s what this is all about," Jack says, but still doesn’t pull the trigger. Connor meets his stare with a newfound fierceness, and Jack swallows audibly. A green vest comes around the corner, and he immediately turns and shoots, grinning at their exclamation as they run back the way they came.

Jack spots a red glow brightening from the tunnel a few feet away, and his first move is to grab Connor’s gun from the floor and pull both of them into a small, empty house-like structure. "Why’d you do that?" Connor whispers as they scrunch themselves into the corner, the ceiling barely four feet tall. Jack just makes a shushing motion as several pairs of footsteps quickly make their way by the little house.

"Truce?" Jack offers without looking at him, surprised at himself the second the word leaves his mouth. Connor’s just as stunned.

"Um. Sure?" Jack looks over to him, the little sounds of guns going off in the surrounding areas providing for a helpful white noise. Jack nods, biting his lower lip, and Connor’s eyes are immediately drawn to it. _No, you idiot_ , Jack thinks stubbornly,  _you’re not interested in_ that _, and he’s got a boyfriend, anyway_.

An image pops into Jack’s head of the last time he and Connor were this close, blond eyelashes over greenish eyes shining with tears, cheeks red and hands shaking with worry. Jack sees the scene unfold from above, the way he flinched so subtly that only a perceptive person like Connor would notice, how Connor gazed at him with sad stars in his eyes and regret on his lips.

Jack’s been playing himself for much too long.

He thinks about how long he’s known Connor—over three years—and about how Connor’s never been anything but kind despite Jack’s bitchy attitude and hot-n-cold attraction.

Connor’s objectively attractive—he can’t deny that—and he’s definitely into Jack—Noah was right. Noah may never get the satisfaction of Jack saying “you were right”, but Jack knows he’ll still be teased if he goes along and follows through with what he’s thinking.

Jack supposes this is what an epiphany feels like.

He blinks once and exhales a little too loudly, slowly, letting all of his reservations, accusations, and hatred of and about Connor go. He nods minutely to himself, and Connor’s lips curve up in the faintest hint of a smile, as if he knows what just happened.

"Do you mind if I—" Jack finally starts, reaching one hand toward Connor, and he can feel Connor’s warm exhale on his face as he leans in instinctively.

"Do it," Connor breathes, and Jack thinks _fuck it_ before he lands his mouth on Connor’s and tries to kiss the air right out of his lungs. It works, as Connor lets out a delighted and surprised noise and fists Jack’s collar in both hands. Jack drops the guns and wraps his hands around Connor’s shoulders as Connor tilts his head and licks at Jack’s lips eagerly.

At Connor’s shifting, Jack pulls him over onto his lap, relishing in the wet heat that is Connor’s talented mouth. He can’t help but think of Taylor helping Connor improve his skills, but the moment Connor bites his lip and licks into his mouth to get to his tongue, Jack is done thinking.

One hand slips down to Connor’s hip, squeezing it, and Connor shudders and rolls his hips down. Jack groans softly into his mouth, and that’s when he realizes what Connor must think. He pushes Connor back, failing to avoid staring at his mouth that shines in the light from their vests.

"Sorry, I wasn’t—" He starts, but Connor doesn’t even let him finish.

"I like you a lot," he says firmly, resettling himself on Jack’s lap and attaching his mouth to Jack’s exposed neck. Jack doesn’t know whether to gasp from the words or the action, Connor’s hands moving up and down and around his chest to explore every inch he can.

"But Taylor—" Jack gets out before Connor nips at a tendon.

"Nope," Connor answers simply, and Jack just lets himself slump against the wall as Connor goes to work. "You don’t know how long I’ve needed this." But there’s just—

"Sorry," Jack says suddenly, tugging Connor up by his hair. "I just—I’m sorry. For everything. I’m a fucking idiot."

Connor just beams at him, and Jack feels something strange but satisfying twist in his chest. "I know. But I forgive you. Dumbass." Jack is about to object when Connor punches his shoulder and pushes himself into another, messier kiss. Jack slides his hands up the back of Connor’s shirt to make him shiver, wondering why he spent all those months making himself hate  _this_.

Jack’s mind is finally open to every possibility, and now that he’s thinking openly—there’s nothing he wants more than this.

He just hopes Noah won’t set his ringtone for Jack to "I Told You So".

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has tips on how to write a rivalry....well, I need some help...


End file.
